


TALLY NO.docx

by the Science Sinner (sanguinePengu1n)



Category: Original Work, Poptropica (Video Game)
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Crack Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Dirty Thoughts, Dream Sex, Existential Crisis, M/M, NSFW, Other, Relationship Discussions, Self-Insert, Self-Reflection, Sex, Unhealthy Kismesissitude, Unhealthy Relationships, Uniform Kink, philosophical, thought provoking, well kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 09:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11399466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinePengu1n/pseuds/the%20Science%20Sinner
Summary: professor penguin goes through an existential crisis: a short story---"Normally, he doesn’t dream of these kinds of things, but...it’s like....a vision. A vision of a reality proven as false. Or was it a falsehood presented as reality?He doesn’t know what to do, or say, or how to react to this. If a real fantasy, a real fiction,  begins to be part of his imagination....or was it his own imagination? It feels like someone else’s, but...in a way, it was his own..."I hope the Creators don't see this. God help me if they do.





	TALLY NO.docx

**Author's Note:**

> So if you're reading this, I hope I have "Only show your work to registered users" on. I don't want little children, the Poptropica Creators or even some prudes to see this.
> 
> This fic is NSFW. Rating should be obvious? Now, the sex isn't explicit--it's just glided over.  
> DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan fiction. All characters (and where they're from) belong to their respective owners. I do not own Poptropica, or the (surprise) character who is from said game. Professor Purple Dangerous Penguin, however, belongs to me. 
> 
> You are also not allowed to repost, do an MST or feature this without my explicit, direct permission.
> 
> Enjoy reading my piece of shit fanfiction. It's unbearably sinful and I shouldn't be writing something so fucked up, but it's deep. It makes up for the unhealhy relationship that will be depicted when you read the story. You will also find out who the surprise canon character is when you read it.
> 
> Also, it could be read within non-fandom context. You don't really /have/ to get into Poptropica to understand this, although it would give more of an effect.

Professor Purple Dangerous Penguin, simply known as Professor, doesn’t know why, how, when or what he’s doing. Sometimes he admittedly lies that he loves him. Other times, he falsely admits that he hates him.

Who is this ‘him?’ Did he mean ‘ _ himself _ ?’

No. Not this time.

This time, he denies his affirmation—his acceptance, while accepting his very own denial. 

It makes so much sense that....it’s confusing.

Alone in his room, his lab, he can only think about the dream he just had.

If it even  _ was _ a dream...

 

Normally, he doesn’t dream of these kinds of things, but...it’s like....a vision. A vision of a reality proven as false. Or was it a falsehood presented as reality?

He doesn’t know what to do, or say, or how to react to this. If a real fantasy, a real fiction,  begins to be part of his imagination....or was it his own imagination? It feels like someone else’s, but...in a way, it was his own...

This time, his dream is definitely something he remembers. He can clearly remember everything about it: it was detailed, clearly in his mind...

_ Explicit. _

 

He shudders. His own thoughts, his feelings even makes Professor shudder. Now he knows how others feel when he’s ‘science sinning.’ He clearly earns that title...

But he is horrified over the fact that his mind is pretty much shared—or, more like connected—with some kind of god. 

 

_ An artist.  _

_ Can a god be an artist? _

_ But...this god...this god is ‘himself.’ _

_ He fears this god. He fears ‘himself.’ _

_ Is he afraid? _

“Yes, I am even afraid of myself. 

_ Do you hate this god? Do you fear him? _

“I do. I hate him as I hate myself. I fear god.”

_... _

“I should be scared of me.”

 

In spite of himself, an emotion overtakes him. He begins to unbutton his own shirt. Button by button, he does it slowly. Very slowly. Every single thought he has, every unfinished thought completed and complete thoughts undone, a button pops open.

He feels like memories (if they were even real this time...if they even were ‘ _ his’ _ this time) are coming back to him, but they aren’t memories at all. They don’t hurt him like the regular memories would...but they  _ feel _ like memories. Regular memories would bring him strong emotions. Still.

Was this memory a dream?

He remembers (or merely remembers the dream) when—or, _ where  _ he was alone with this one man..

 

That man. He knows who that man is, even if he shouldn’t. 

That man is a stranger to him, but also a friend, an enemy...

_ A lover? A friend (or enemy) with benefits? _

_ No. It can’t be. _

 

What he can say, at least, the man’s name appears almost everywhere. Hell, the man has made headlines.

He is the complete opposite of the Professor as well. He is different from all the villains—and arguably, the most disturbing.

Yet those are the only two similarities they share. Everything else—especially within the sameness between them (as in, they way they do their villainy), is different.

Professor then recalls another one, however:

Both of them, he and that man are all alone and needs at least one fuck to give, and/or get.  _ Especially a fuck to have—with each other. _

He remembers the feeling of it, at least.

 

Professor would feel himself throwing his head back, nearly thrashing himself so hard he’d commit genocide on his braincells. 

_ Was it in pleasure? _

Professor would wish he could say no—but he knows...this isn’t the same kind of pleasure that one would have, when one would actually fuck.

But that didn’t happen. He only felt it. Not like it actually happened. The same couldn’t be said for his hands, though. They would often clench into fists, as if he’d punch the man square in the jaw. They would unclench again, not in mercy or hesitation.

Instead of taking the man with him to die, he would only take the bed sheets with him. 

He would swear that the sheets would have wrinkles by the end of this. Better (or worse?) yet, tore a hole in them. That would also do nicely.

Professor would do nothing but these actions, unless that man had given his permission to do otherwise. That’s okay. Over the years, the dark-haired man had mastered self-control.

 

Perhaps to the point where he could never feel true love towards that man. No, but at the least, Professor can describe his feelings towards him via hate. Yet...he couldn’t describe it as complete hate either. Lust sounded far-fetched. 

It was neither of those things, he confirms but at the sometime, denies.

Then...what was it?

 

_ Was it fate? _

_ What is fate? Or rather, who?  _

_ What, or who decides fate? _

_ Is it him, himself? _

 

He doesn’t know. And he doesn’t care.

He only cared for that feeling in that ‘dream.’ That feeling...

Did he enjoy it? Or was he disgusted? Was he enjoying his own disgust, or disgusted in his enjoyment?

Whatever it was, it was weird. 

 

It  is weird. Professor would give the occasional involuntary noises. That’s right—the moans, the groans and muffled screams and curses out of the bursts of excitement. They would be translated as words of encouragement for the man he would  fuck with . Figuratively and literally. The only things Professor recalled saying where, well—what he’d normally say in a casual conversation. 

With a twist in the scenario, of course—dirty things like ‘fuck you’, ‘fuck me’, ‘why’, ‘you motherfucker’, and the classic: ‘I hate you so fucking much like I hate myself.’ 

He somehow cared for his thoughts in that ‘dream’ as well.

He probably hates this man so much, that it’s probably even more than hate. 

But, he loves the man as well. He admires this man’s intellect, personality, mannerisms, actions and to a degree, appearance. 

He probably loves this man so much, that it’s probably even more than love.

Still, this feeling for this man has transcended love or hate.

It’s awfully clever. So fucking intelligent in its stupidity, and stupid in its intelligence. The stupidity and intelligence in front and behind the concept of intimacy, that is.

 

Things in the ‘dream’ would get intense when Professor recalls what the man was wearing—a uniform. It was the colour of the faces one would get if something flusters them, the cherry when it pops, the beverage they would both consume beforehand...

The colour of what would be spilt whenever Professor thinks about the man’s full name.

Bright red. A British riding uniform.

_ Myron Van Buren. _

Of course. Of fucking course. Motherfucking Van Buren. That...

Tally fucking  _ hoe _ .

 

Professor would see him in that uniform. He would see him hold a riding crop and a menacing, smug look on his face.

Van Buren was the kind of man that the professor wished to be.

Who is he kidding? He already  _ is _ that kind of man in his own world. Aside from that, Professor had always wanted to be in that kind of position of power. Yet, he never was. The man he would fuck with was rich. A rich hunter. 

To the younger man, that sounded depressing. 

Van Buren seemed like a simple hunter compared to his own prestige of lecturing in Ephraim and being the consultant/creative director of not  _ a _ , but  _ the _ game.

_ Say, would it be considered a game of life, but only this world? Is life a game, at least here? This false reality which is also legit fiction in another world? _

“Stop that.” Professor tells ‘himself.’ But he tells ‘himself’ to keep going.

These two men, Professor Penguin and Myron Van Buren, are indeed opposites. Nothing is shared to everything, but everything keeps from nothing. 

A pity, really.

...

_ Sure, there is more to the ‘dream.’ _

_ But the Professor thinks ‘he’ shouldn’t share anything further.  _

_ ‘He’ has tortured the unseen readers enough. _

_ And ultimately, ‘he’ has tortured the writer, who is also an artist.  _

_ A writer and an artist? Therefore, ‘he’ has tortured a god.  _

_ His own god.  _

_ Wait, he  _ **_is_ ** _ his own god... _

_ Then... _

_ Ultimately, ‘he’ has tortured himself. _

_ There are many, but he is alone. Is this what loneliness is? Is he lonely as he is being accompanied with, within a far away universe of his own?  _

_ Is he lonely because he is (in)directly connected to said universe? _

 

_ Probably. _

 

For himself, Professor finds loneliness an understated overstatement—or an overstated understatement. He no longer knows which. If he falsely knows everything, then he truly knows nothing.

That other man, Myron Van Buren, is desperate while Professor is only conflicted.

That is probably what brought them together in this....what even is it anymore?

A dream? A memory?

 

_ No, it was only a thought.  _

_ Yes, it was also a feeling.  _

_ A combination of both. _

 

“’I’ made _ myself  _ this way.” He realises.

His exotic, near-soulless, dark brown eyes meet at his own hand. 

It happens to be coated with...

...A mess. 

A mess?

‘He’ had made a physical and emotional mess out of  _ himself _ .

**_“I am so, so fucked up..."_ **

**Author's Note:**

> If you get this far, congrats. I hope you cringed.
> 
> If you failed to, again--congrats. You seem to be dedicated. I like that. Keep being you. You're the best.
> 
> Thank you for reading. This is my first work on AO3 that I've ever posted, by the way.


End file.
